Noster Nostri
by Shiraoi
Summary: Because there's no hiding it, her pulse. He's feeling it so acutely through her skin, that it's practically his own. MugenxFuu.


**Samurai Champloo**

**Genre: Romance/Angst**

**Type: Oneshot**

**Pairing: MugenxFuu**

**Spoilers: (sort of) Episode 5--Artistic Anarchy (Falling on Deaf Ears)**

**Title: Noster Nostri (our hearts beat as one)**

**Summary: **Because there's no hiding it, her pulse; he's feeling it so acutely through her skin, that it's practically his own. MugenxFuu.

It's a mistake, they know, but they're already inside the studio and it's too late to turn back. Second thoughts now no longer apply because they're sitting side by side, pointedly staring in opposite directions, while the artist sets up his (blank) canvas, arranges his tools. There's a murmur in the air of swaying branches. Tense nerves and sweaty palms, but they have to do it, they need the money, and it's too late to turn back.

**xXx**

She's done this before. Once. When they needed the money for boat fair and she couldn't afford to say no. It'd happened in a room quite like this one (spacious, quiet, soft-lit and serene) but there was only two of them; the artist and his work. There was no Mugen, no props, and she had only the steady sound of her heartbeat to keep her company.

But they need the money, she can't afford to say no, and this may be her only chance to say everything without ever saying anything at all.

**xXx**

When he finally turns to look at her, he knows there's a scowl on his face. He can't help it. This whole situation is pissing him off, because he should have said no. There are plenty of ways for them (him) to make money, this shouldn't even be an option, but when asked (forced) he blindly consented and can no longer take back his word. He's stuck, he can't leave, and the artist is looking at him with a strange glint in his eye.

A curse escapes his lips in the form of a heated whisper and the scowl on his face remains.

He should have said no.

**xXx**

There's a dagger (prop) in her hand now and she's facing him with a fire burning in her eye. The artist is hovering, putting her hands and body into position, and when he tells her to get closer, to touch the dagger lightly to his neck while raising up on her knees, she consciously agrees. It's art, she tells herself. Tragic and poignant. Real. She's only doing as she's told. The determined look in her eye has nothing to do with the fact that she's suddenly got her hand on his shoulder and his left hand around her wrist.

When she feels her kimono slide down to reveal the tops of her shoulders, milky-white and feminine, she doesn't blush.

She's done this before. Once. But now it isn't about the money and she doesn't want to say no.

It may be her last (her only) chance to tell him everything, and she won't let it slip away.

**xXx**

He feels the metal, hard and cold, against the thick of his neck; her pulse, rapid and melodic, underneath the pad of his thumb. The size of her wrist is so small, astonishing, and he wonders why he never noticed before. Their hardly two feet apart, her eyes are narrowed, taunting him with unanswered questions, and he has never felt less like scowling.

There has never been any attraction toward her, he's made sure of that. But one look at her shoulders, the delicate groove of her collar-bone, tells him he's a liar.

The feel of her pulse, rapid and melodic, underneath the pad of his thumb is suddenly burning a hole in his skin and he can't pull away.

**xXx**

She tries to keep her expression fierce, angry, just like the artist told her to (your fighting), and in her concentration, the dagger she grips accidentally slides closer towards his neck. It's sharp, naturally, and when it presses against his skin, however lightly, she hears a quiet hiss of protest and feels a tiny squeeze of pain. Her wrist has never been held quite so tight before, but she smiles (slyly) at him anyway.

Because there's no hiding it, her pulse; he's feeling it so acutely through her skin, that it's practically his own.

**xXx**

He hates sitting still but there is something both calming and chaotic about their silence (their stillness). The only thing he can hear is the swish of brush on canvas, the quiet hum of taken breaths. If he concentrates hard enough, the dull thump of blood, a steady rush, can be felt in his ears. She'll never know, and he'll never tell her, but its a perfect match (her pulse and his).

Realizing that, he's suddenly startled, aware. The grip he has on her wrist, firm and tangible, grows slack and he begins to let go (pull back).

"Don't move." The artist tells him.

And suddenly he's looking at her face, seeing the words written in the color of her eyes, and he obeys.

**xXx**

She's itching to know, dying to feel it, but one slip of the hand from shoulder to chest will most likely cost her everything. He's already made the mistake of moving once, and the portrait's more than almost done. It can't be worth it, it shouldn't be, but she's already trailing down his ribcage with her fingers to press her palm flat against his chest.

A twitch under her touch and she's holding his gaze with an intense understanding. Her fingers are splayed across his chest, pressed firm against his heartbeat, and she breaths deep, eyes alight, knowing they're the same.

Because there's no hiding it, his pulse; she's feeling it so acutely through his shirt (his skin), that it's practically her own.

**xXx**

It's a mistake, they know (lie), but they're already leaving the studio and it's too late to turn back. Second thoughts now no longer apply because they're walking side by side, pointedly staring in opposite directions, while holding their golden earnings. There's a murmur in the air of swaying branches. Calm nerves and matching heartbeats, but they had to do it, they needed the money, and it's too late to turn back.


End file.
